


The Aftermath

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set the evening after Sherlock and John go to confront Magnussen. I wanted to call it something to do with Boxing Day, or St. Stephen's Day, or even the Hunting of the Wren. But in the end it was just The Aftermath. Less than forty-eight hours since Wiggins drugged the tea and the punch... and Mycroft and Lestrade are living in a whole new world that really stinks. Postulating that the star chamber meeting we see in which Mycroft bargains for Sherlock's future occurred only hours before...because when a Holmes boy turns rogue and starts killing people, it has to be dealt with. Fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Aftermath

 

Lestrade reported to Mycroft’s office the evening after Christmas.

“The game’s over,” Mycroft said, quietly. “The best I was able to arrange was that mission to the Urals.”

Lestrade twitched. “The one…”

“Yes.” Mycroft refused to meet his eyes, gingerly pushing the files around his desk. “It was…one of a very limited set of options. The other ones were worse.”

“How long…” Lestrade didn’t want to ask the question Mycroft’s information demanded.

“Six months. If he’s lucky.” Mycroft did look up, then. “I won’t even be able to put a GPS chip in him. We won’t be able to retrieve his…” He swallowed, hard. “They’ve gotten canny. They know we chip agents, sometimes. They look for it. I suppose Sherlock will say he’s already got a grave—we can visit that,” he added, bitterly.

Lestrade winced, but had to admit it sounded like something Sherlock would say, his voice all acid and innuendo. “Yeah. Well.” He looked blankly around the office. Over the past years he’d grown familiar with it. It was never a place he felt comfortable: one didn’t feel comfortable in The British Government’s sanctum sanctorum. But it was a place he’d miss—just as he’d miss Sherlock.

Just like he’d miss the ruddy British Government. “I guess you won’t have much use for me, now.”

Mycroft didn’t look up. Instead he said, softly, “We found you useful when Sherlock was gone, before. You’re among the best on the London beat.”

Lestrade shrugged. That wasn’t unexpected, and he wasn’t going to argue. He was good at the London beat. Among the best. But it wasn’t what he’d meant, and he and Mycroft both knew it. The Sherlock detail was ending, forever—the primary work that had tied Mycroft and Lestrade together. Anyone could serve as Lestrade’s liaison for the London work. Only Mycroft could have been his anchor for Sherlock.

He fished in his coat pocket and slipped out his coded access card. “Doubt I’ll be needing it again.”

Mycroft refused to look at it. “Too early to say, DI Lestrade.”

“No. It’s not. No point delaying the inevitable.” He put the card down on the corner of Mycroft’s desk.

Mycroft didn’t take it. He didn’t push it back, either. “Perhaps a drink before you go,” he said. “After so many years it seems…” his voice trailed off.

“I’ll take you up on that,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft found scotch and glasses, and served them both. “Do sit.”

Lestrade snorted, and settled in one of the guest chairs.

They both drank.

“I’d make a toast,” Mycroft said, “but in honesty, I can’t think of a single happy thing to toast right now. All I seem to have left in me are spite, malice, and regrets.”

Lestrade considered. “To St. Jude, because what’s a miracle if it’s not for a lost cause?”

Mycroft waved his glass lightly, in a half-hearted endorsement of the toast, but didn’t say more. He’d settled on the edge of his desk. Normally he would have stretched out his long legs, Lestrade knew, and leaned confidently. Lestrade had always found Mycroft’s ability to be genial, relaxed, and utterly charming one of those little, amazing wonders life hands you unexpectedly, like a ladybird beetle lighting on your hand on a bright autumn day. When Mycroft was business, he was all business. But when he chose to socialize—those rare, rare times—he lit the room up with mischievous smiles, sly wit, and quiet kindness.

Today all that was veiled in mourning, though, hidden away. Lestrade found himself wondering if, after this, it would ever be seen again. He felt as though his sometime partner were gutted, like a building after a fire had raged through it leaving charcoal and ash and the bitter smell of smoke, but nothing that could ever again be a home to laughter or charm.

“How are John and Mary doing,” Lestrade ventured to ask.

“Not talking to me,” Mycroft responded. “I know they don’t blame me. But…”

“But John needs to be angry at someone.”

“Yes. I’m convenient. He can afford to hate me.”

Lestrade grunted a neutral acknowledgement. “I tried calling last night. Didn’t really expect an answer. Just as well. Your parents? They’re…?”

Mycroft made a face. “Were the situation less dire, I’d be tempted to go on about how Sherlock has once more ruined Christmas for everybody. This time, though, there’s really no way to encompass the magnitude of their pain. It’s not every day your favorite child manages to drug the family and guests before the Christmas dinner, leave everyone in the care of a street person of dubious chemistry-related skills, commit treason, commit murder, and nearly get killed. I’m afraid it rather put a damper on dinner. And when I told Mummy about today’s arrangement… Well. I somehow doubt I’ll be invited down for a family do for some time to come.”

Lestrade tried to imagine being the son somehow expected to have either kept this from happening, or fixed it after it did happen. He sighed, then said in tentative sympathy, “Well, it’s not like you enjoyed family dos much anyway. Think of it as time off for good behavior.”

Mycroft attempted a laugh. It was unconvincing.

“You can go on a pub crawl with me, next Christmas,” Lestrade offered. “We can talk about old times and drink old scotch. Always a good combination.”

Mycroft nodded. “This is true. I’ll reserve an evening for you, Lestrade.” He sipped the last of his scotch and put the glass down on the desk. “It could have been worse,” he said, forlornly. “The special forces team could have started shooting. It was a terribly close thing.”

Lestrade shuddered. “I still can’t believe he did that. You and John would have had to watch…”

“Oh, we’d have had ringside seats,” Mycroft said, softly. “I had the most excellent view. I’m not sure John would have survived to tell about it, though. Technically he was in the line of fire. There’s that thing about standing immediately behind the target with the little red laser targeting dots… It really doesn’t matter that the dots aren’t on your forehead. Too many of them are going to get past, you see.” His voice was washed pale of all emotion, wrung out and limp. “I…dreamed about it last night.”

“Ok. Now I’ve heard enough. Mycroft, if you don’t get treatment for shock and trauma, I’m reporting you. That’s…”

“Oh, I’ve seen worse,” Mycroft said, wearily. “Just…not starring Sherlock, you see.” His voice faltered, then, and he ducked his head and busied himself straightening the fall of his lapels and the set of his waistcoat. His hands shook. “He was so young. In the dream. So very young.”

Lestrade growled. “Therapy, Mycroft. PTSD. I’m not joking. I’ll call you in myself, if you don’t.”

Mycroft risked a sour, but amused look. “And you’ll know if I don’t? How?”

“I have my ways.” He did, too. Anthea liked him…and she worried about Mycroft.

Mycroft looked skeptical, but rolled his eyes and gave grudging assent. “Oh, very well. I’ll talk to someone. Not that I expect it to come to anything. With my luck it will all be talk about how Mummy never valued me and how Sherlock never could think things through.” He flinched, then, and said, “It was such a stupid, stupid plan, Greg.”

Lestrade almost froze in place. Mycroft just didn’t call him Greg. Too informal. Too personal. He studied the man. He was still perched at the edge of his desk, feet tucked under like a girl with new mary-jane shoes, shoulders and head curled forward, coping with grief, hands not quite still on his lap. “Stupid?”

“Based on so many wrong assumptions. And with no real safety net. It was reckless to a fault. What was wrong with him?” Mycroft looked up, meeting Lestrade’s eyes, and Lestrade could see the shock as well as hear it, now. The elder Holmes boy was shattered. “From this autumn onward, from the drugs on, he was just…” He looked away. “He was out of control, and nothing seemed to bring him back. It just got worse and worse. That poor girl he used. And once he’d been shot. I think… I fear… I think I knew, you know. That it was ending.”

Lestrade watched, thinking fast. He’d dealt with other officers in shock. He’d dealt with people in mourning. This wasn’t that different, except it was Mycroft Holmes, and Mycroft Holmes had apparently decided that, of all the people in the universe, Greg Lestrade was the one he’d trust to catch him when he fell…

It was, he supposed, an honor. He was scared to death—because if Mycroft fell, Lestrade suddenly knew he’d fall hard, and land harder.

“Talk to me,” he said, though, leaving the door wide open. “Tell me.”

Mycroft said, “I tried, you know. To reach him. At the end.”

“You tried beginning, end, and middle,” Lestrade said. “He wasn’t an easy man to reach. But the only reason I’m even here is because you were trying.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Oh. That. As much pragmatic planning as anything—though you’ve been wonderful with him.”

Lestrade shrugged.

They were both silent.

“I’m going to try to get him back,” Mycroft said. “I don’t know how, though. Not this time. Three tribes, all hypervigilant, all given to killing first, asking questions later. And Sherlock’s not going to be able to fit in. Someone’s going to get suspicious.”

“You do what you can.”

“No.” Mycroft’s voice was soft but fierce. “I do more than I can. I just can’t do _enough_ more this time. He committed murder. And as far as the secret services are concerned, he went rogue—and maybe even committed willful treason. I can’t fix enough, Greg.” He sounded just a touch panicky. “I can’t stretch that far.”

Lestrade did what he’d do with any rookie fresh off his first violent action—and what he’d never have dared do for Mycroft Holmes until that day. He stood, came close, and slipped one hand around the nape of his neck and pulled him near. “’S okay. No one expects you to.”

He didn’t know if he was surprised or not when Mycroft Holmes behaved like the rookie, and leaned his head against Lestrade’s shoulder. “Yes. They do.”

And, Lestrade thought, reviewing everything he knew about Mycroft’s many dependents, he was probably right. Mycroft Holmes seemed to live with the curse of the highly effective: for every miracle he accomplished, there were five more of increasing difficulty requested. He gripped Mycroft’s neck a little tighter, and conceded, “Yes. Ok. They do. But you know what? They ask too much.”

He felt the little shiver, and wondered if that little bit—that one sliver of acknowledgement—would open the gates of tears Holmes needed to shed. It didn’t. Instead he straightened, looking uncomfortable, and drew himself up, pushing away from the desk and walking to his window, back turned to Lestrade. “My word. I am become quite maudlin. Sherlock always did have such a bad effect on my equanimity. No doubt the next few months will be comparative peace…”

It might have been his ordinary sarky style, if his voice hadn’t shaken so hard.

Lestrade considered, weighing the choices. In the end he decided he wasn’t enough of a talent to try to finesse Mycroft into the mourning he needed. Instead he forsook finesse entirely, and said, simply, “Tell me. Please. Come on. It’s eating you alive. Just tell me…and we’ll go on from there.”

Mycroft stiffened, and, like an unruly boy, said, “Why?”

Lestrade shook his head, and snorted dour amusement. “Because we’re both a mess. Because we’re partners, in some weird way we never did quite work out. Because we’re both losing him.”

He just barely caught the sharp inhale from the man on the other side of the room, and bit back more words, waiting for Mycroft to cross his Rubicon. He could see the other man’s pain in the set of his shoulders and the lift of his head.

“Do you know what I told him Christmas day?”

Lestrade could hear it all: anger—no, rage. Shock. Pain. Loss. Grief. And in there, something beyond any of them. Complete devestation. “No,” he said, moving close, knowing somehow it was time to be ready. Time to be ready to catch Holmes before he hurtled out of sanity entirely.  “What did you tell him?”

“That losing him would break my heart.” Mycroft gasped, and then said, “And less than half an hour later he’d drugged us all and gone off like a fool to destroy his life.” And the grief took him…

Lestrade caught him as he folded in on himself, pulling him tight…horrified.  What a thing to do to Mycroft. And then to pull that stunt killing Magnussen with all of special forces ready, and Mycroft yards away and technically in command of the forces that would kill Sherlock….

“Fuck.” He pulled Mycroft close, hanging on tight. Mycroft’s grief was nearly silent, hardly more than dry, whispering gasps. It was Lestrade who found himself swept away in oceans of tears.

So much he’d hoped for—so much Mycroft had hoped for—and Sherlock had left them with this, and no reason why. In the face of that, he didn’t have words—all he had was strong arms, and his own grief. He rocked Mycroft lightly, and waited for the peace of exhaustion to come and set them both free.


End file.
